


kiss me hard before you go

by poppunklwt



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Beatles Breakup, Bisexual Paul McCartney, Emotional Baggage, Feelings Realization, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Sexual Tension, Sexuality Crisis, and paul's feelings get involved??, basically john and paul are friends with benefits, from the 60s to 1980, this is all just pain and suffering, this is all over a 20 year span, with some sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppunklwt/pseuds/poppunklwt
Summary: Paul McCartney isn't in love with John Lennon. He's in like with John Lennon.In which John and Paul are friends with benefits and Paul's feelings unwittingly get involved.





	kiss me hard before you go

**Author's Note:**

> This fic won't be very long, as each chapter will skip a few years starting with the 1964 world tour and ending with John's death in 1980. I just wanted to write something angsty and painful, tbh.
> 
> The title of this fic comes from the song "Summertime Sadness" by Lana Del Rey.

“That boy took my love away

Though he'll regret it someday

But this boy wants you back again

That boy isn't good for you

Though he may want you too

This boy wants you back again”

 _\- This Boy,_ The Beatles

 

**_Sometime during the UK leg of the 1964 world tour. A cramped hotel suite._ **

****

Paul needs an ultimatum.

            But, per usual, he’s not going to say a _single thing_ about it.

            That’s what he does. He allows everything to simmer inside of him. It’s a wonder that he hasn’t totally flipped yet.

            He fidgets for a minute, crosses his legs briefly at the ankles, and huffs out a single wavering breath. He needs a smoke. He’ll probably attempt to snatch one off George—who’s all the way over on the other side of the room, puffing mouthful after mouthful of ashy smoke out through the slightly propped-open window.

            Hardly to his surprise, there’s likely swaths of crazed fans pissing themselves and crying and clutching at their hair relentlessly down below. And George is puffing his smoke past his parted lips lazily, right down on them, hardly even acknowledging their frantic shouts directed at him.

            Paul doesn’t know how he does it. Being all calm and collected, and all.

            He does appreciate them, yeah, but it _never_ does much to prevent headaches. Which he seemed to get a _damn lot_ lately.

            “George,” Paul attempts feebly, not really having the motivation to crawl out of his current position. “Pass me one of those, will you?”

            George sighs, as if frustrated enough that he needs to cock his head to the side to even respond to his bandmate. “Ask John or Ringo later,” he heaves, flicking the burnt-down stub out the window, exhaling one final time with a short cough. “That was my last one, mate. Maybe Brian’ll have one?”

            “Nah,” Paul manages, slouching further backwards into the uncomfortable wooden chair. Anyways, he always felt… guilty, in a sort, whenever he asked Brian for something. Like, he did so much for them _already_. Asking for a cigarette kind of paled in comparison to him constantly booking them show after show and appearances on television’s biggest programs.

            And _John and Ringo_? Maybe Ringo would—he doubted John would do that.

            _John._ The simple act of George uttering his _name_ pissed him off. Although he had no valid reason to respond that way.

            He means, what does it matter that John goes out fucking random girls at all ungodly hours of the night and after pretty much every gig? They all did it. What made John in any way unique?

            Paul remembers in vivid detail the times he’d drag any willing girl back to their hotel suites—hell, _sharing_ girls wasn’t even an uncommon thing for them—and then there was the times John made Paul swear his secrecy.

            Now, Paul doesn’t know if he’s _totally wrong_ for preferring the latter over any girl he could find. Even if he had the likes of Brigitte Bardot lining up to sleep with him, it would always be John.

            It was _always_ John. And the whole thing was _fucking illegal_.

            He shouldn’t be doing it, he _longs_ for it, god damn it—he knows he’s not queer. But still.

            So, yeah, an ultimatum is what he really needs.

 

✿

 

“A bit quiet tonight, aren’t we?”

            Paul’s not even going to give John the satisfaction of an answer. But he can’t, he knows John can read him like a book.

            Paul only shrugs indignantly. Their shoes and socks are strewn all about the carpet; and George and Ringo are nowhere in sight, probably having gone to pop in and out of several local bars for a drink or two following their previous gig. Brian’s probably tucked in for the evening already, and it’s only roughly ten at night.

            And here Paul is, letting John have his fucking way with him again.

            But there’s no way of telling—for him, at least—to tell if this is actually what he really wants right now.

            And John’s just gazing at him, all starry-eyed, his lips red and puffy and swollen. He’s a _mess_ , with half of his shirt buttons popped open and his solid black tie slung about his neck, and somehow, Paul thinks even John can somehow manage to look like a total train wreck and like some gorgeous, otherworldly creature all at once.

            Paul hates him for it.

            “I’m fine, John,” Paul utters in a hushed tone. He doesn’t want John worrying about him. Really, that’s what the pair initially swore off to.

            There were never to be any emotions involved. At all. It was just going to be like having sex with some groupie—except, the groupie never went away.

            John had Cynthia to worry about. And a new son too, no less.

            He could push and push Paul away as far as he wanted, detach himself from his bandmate emotionally—this was just a routine thing between best friends, that’s all.

            However, Paul didn’t know of  many same-sex best friends that had much of a similar complex going on.

            _Don’t think._

“Whatever you say, mate,” John adds, concluding their short although awkward exchange.

            _Mate._ Paul doesn’t know why he’s so bothered by this—is that all he is to John? Their promise had indirectly made that clear, really. A friend, bandmate, and a _fucking object_ to release all his sexual tension on.

            He thinks, with maybe just a single shred of logic, that he may be in too deep.

            John speeds up their meeting by continuing to fling every inch of fabric off his frame, his tie nearly hitting Paul in the face during its journey to the floor, alongside his pristine-white collared shirt.

            Paul doesn’t allow himself to say a word as his friend fiercely fumbles with Paul’s own buttons next, hardly even looking upwards in between the time it takes to swipe his pants off as well.

            The suite is so eerily silent; the only audible noise that comes is the ragged inhale and exhale of their own breathing. Paul promptly sets to work on helping John with his own trouser removal, all while John literally attacks Paul’s neck and collarbones feverishly.

            Paul sets his front teeth on his chapped bottom lip in a vain attempt to suppress any groans that were to pass his parted lips as John bit and sucked on his unmarked skin, flicking his tongue about messily and scattering kisses all about the upper portions of his torso.

            John breaks free for a given moment, as if to marvel at a job well done, soft purple-ish markings blossoming quickly and without mercy on Paul’s skin. _He’d certainly have a fun time trying to cover those up._

“Fuck,” Paul manages to huff, his slowly hardening erection throbbing dully within the confines of his underwear. Whether he desired to admit it or not, John had this sort of effect on him.

            “Happy to see me, I notice,” John sneers teasingly, gesturing to the now-noticeable bulge; even Paul never had a doubt in his mind that John, of all people, could find a way to joke during an occasion such as this.

            “Fuck off,” Paul groans, his cheeks warming considerably in slight embarrassment. After all this months, he _still_ wasn’t used to exposing himself to John in such a way. Yeah, before this had all become a thing, the four of them had all caught glimpses of their bandmates in ways they’d never wanted to. But this was different. This was _intimate_.

            “You’re going to ruin the moment, and then my boner’s going to go away,” Paul continues to chuckle, soon making light of his friend’s out-of-place comment.

            John giggled almost childishly alongside him, laying him down face-up on the plush mattress softly, hardly as rough or forceful as he routinely was.

            Before Paul can say anything else, John’s got his mouth latched to his in an instant, swirling his tongue around and sucking deeply on Paul’s lips, only to receive a smattering of moans from the other’s end. Paul desperately wants to jerk his hips up, _anything_ to achieve some sort of friction, but he already knows from experience that John won’t have that.

            John tugs away from Paul yet again, but not without some noticeable hesitation, and quickly leaps off the bed for a split second to descend onto the floor, reaching into the back pocket of his pants to retrieve a small bottle of lube.

            Paul doesn’t know why he was expecting John to carry lube on him all along.

            John kneels before Paul once more, hiking his friend’s legs up and over his shoulders without warning. Paul nearly shrieks from the suddenness of the action.

            John extends two long, slender fingers out towards Paul’s lips with one, singular command: “Suck.”

            So, Paul does so, John eyeing him warily with blind anticipation. When Paul’s finished, he moves the two fingers down towards Paul’s ass, eyebrows arched quizzically.

            “Ready?” John asks of him. That’s what Paul likes about having sex with John—he’s considerate. Somewhat. Really, he’s just considerate when he’s not slamming into Paul repeatedly and restricting his ability to sit down properly for a considerable amount of time.

            Paul nods eagerly, and John swipes Paul’s underpants off in one clean sweep, his erection springing free from its confines. He flinches slightly from the sudden cool air hitting him, but settles quickly when John slowly slides his fingers inside consecutively, scissoring them gently.

            Paul chews down on his lip again, his hips bucking up instinctively as John pulls his fingers out. They’ve hardly gotten down to it yet, and Paul feels like he’s already near the brink.

            But when John asks his bandmate again if he’s ready before he starts slicking himself up with lube, Paul gives him an entirely different response.

            “No, John, I’m not ready.”

            He can almost hear John’s heart shattering at the statement. _Good on him, then._ He almost, _almost_ let John get away with using him again.

            Paul doesn’t know if he wants this anymore. He fucking _doesn’t._

“Why?” John asks, wide-eyed, appearing genuinely confused.

            But, despite how much John may want or need this right now, he’s not going to force John into anything. John may be an asshole at times, sure, but he’s not going to fuck Paul without his consent.

            Finally, after a moment of arguably awkward silence, Paul pipes up once more.

            "John, we can't keep doing this. I need a fuckin' ultimatum."

            "Who says we can't?"

            "I do. John—fuck—I can't."

            And that’s that. John doesn’t even bother arguing with him, because knowing how much both of their opinions differ, that’ll lead them nowhere.

            Maybe that’s what makes them such good partners—they’re so different, completely separate individuals. Without much of a look into their partnership and their teamwork dynamic, one would say they’re practically soulmates.

            And with that, Paul watches his soulmate disappear out the door without a word, the door suddenly being propped open allowing several small shreds of bright light to filter into the dim air of the room, only to disappear as the door is slammed shut with a soft _click_ of the lock.

           

✿

 

Paul wakes up in the morning with a throbbing headache and no noticeable sign of John’s presence ever having been in his room. Like he’d been alone all along.

            He stumbles out from under the heavy, itchy blankets lazily, showers, and dresses for the morning without hardly a thought swimming through his empty conscience. He doesn’t even utter a word when Ringo jokingly quips, “You must’ve had a good time last night, Paul,” at the sight of his uncovered and prominent hickey at breakfast.

            And it doesn’t even help that Paul hardly sniffs a morsel on his breakfast platter.

            Paul _fucking hates_ ham and cheese omelettes.


End file.
